a superhero doesn't need a worksong.
he rushes into burning buildings & brings out every
grateful tenant unharmed. he swoops down & grabs
in his arms the pretty girl who has somehow fallen
off a cliff, then flies into space to deflect a meteor on
a collision course with Earth. they hang medals around
his neck, & the damsels whose distress he has vanquished
show their appreciation with lavish kisses.

when the black man sings about workin' on the chain gang,
the guy with the sore back moans about loading 16 tons,
the tubercular crew stumbles reluctantly toward another
shift, workin' in the coal mine, I know those songs. the tunes
are etched in my soul, 'cause I never was a hero.

on a dusty shelf in an abandoned library, is the book that
nobody reads. soiled cover containing crumbling parchment
pages, mouldering binding, ink blurred & streaked:
the book of my life.

I've walked thru jungles with strong men who have shaken
the mountains with their trembling, & shattered the sky,
broken every star, with their screams.

when I look back over the years of my arduous journey, I see
clearly the reason for the trials of my past, & of my future:
the hourglass is cracked,
and the sands of time run red...

it's been said that on the shining day of that final
Judgment, when we all march into heaven, the first shall
be last & the last first. if that's true, I will be at the head
of that broken parade.